


Day One: Fake Dating/Marriage

by Gloriousred



Series: Nygmobblepot Week 2018 [1]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Arkham Asylum, Canon Compliant, Future Fic, Gotham General Hospital, Jewelry, M/M, Nygmobblepot Week 2018, Penguins, Sign Language, The Iceberg Lounge, origami penguin, umbrella gadgets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-19
Updated: 2018-03-19
Packaged: 2019-04-04 13:46:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14021565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gloriousred/pseuds/Gloriousred
Summary: Two Nygmobblepot stories from my sister and I where Ed lies about his relationship status to sneak into two different places to see Oswald, at two different moments in time.





	1. Arkham Lovers

**Author's Note:**

> This is my sister and I's contributions to Nygmobblepot Week 2018 each in their own chapter.   
> Chapter 1 is hers,   
> Chapter 2 is mine. 
> 
> Enjoy :)

“What is your relationship to the patient?” the robust, African-American guard asked with a monotone voice forged from routinely asking this same question to countless people, about countless patients, for countless years. It was the one question that was always asked. And the one question that Ed Nygma had not anticipated when trying to get into Arkham. 

_ Did  _ he have a relationship to the patient? To  _ Oswald _ ?

The guard was looking down, reading some sort of booklet. Good thing, as Ed was fidgeting trying to come up with a response that was not  _ arch enemies.  _ Yet his mind came out blank. At least a portion of it, the portion in charge, did. 

“Aww, come on, Eddie boy,” Riddler teased, his eyes alight with insanity - and an answer. Ed rolled his eyes. He thought the pills dealt with hallucinations for 4 hours. He hadn’t been standing here struggling through the interview for _ 4 hours _ , surely? “Isn’t it obvious what the answer  _ has  _ to be?”

Ed snapped, already tired and confused and certainly not needing  _ himself  _ to worsen his emotional situation. “Just get to it, Riddler. I know you’re smarter than me anyway,” he whispered, making sure the microphone that passed his answers to the guard in a plastic cubicle did not capture his internal dialogue.

“Let’s use process of elimination, shall we? After all, what fun is just  _ telling  _ you the answer?” Riddler cooed, emphasizing his joy at the thought of torturing himself. 

Ed rolled his eyes again. 

The guard looked up, the silence at last a tad  _ too  _ long for it to be comfortable - or  _ not  _ suspicious. “So, sir. Your relationship to the patient?”

Riddler, feeling the pressure, cut his torture short - for now. “ _ Friends _ is not going to get you through the gates, you will  _ never  _ pass of as a family member, so…  _ I can’t be bought, but I can be stolen with a glance. I’m worthless to one, but priceless to two. I am - _ ”

“Love,” Ed answered, mostly because he remembered the riddle rather than knowing the answer. “Love-lovers,” he corrected. Then he blushed, realizing what he had just said.

The guard’s eyes widened. He scrolled quickly through the booklet before looking up at Ed again. “You… and  _ Oswald Cobblepot _ …?” The guard fiddled with his fingers, unable to finish the thought, but making the meaning clear to Ed. 

Ed was not sure why, but the guard’s attitude angered him enough to talk back. “Yes, sir. Why, do you have a problem with that?”

The guard panicked at being placed on the spot. He shook his head several times, saying, “No, no,  _ no _ . Not at all. Love is love is love, you know?” 

Riddler grinned at him from the corner of his eye. Ed could tell that the grin, unlike so many others, was not condescending, but rather proud. He had effectively stopped any more questions on the subject. On his own. Somehow, that boosted his confidence.

The guard cleared his throat awkwardly as he took a Visitor pass from a pile by the edge of his desk, writing in  _ Edward Nygma  _ on the blank line by the center of the square and signing below it. He added the date at the top. 

“15 cm by 15 cm…” Riddler murmured, examining the piece of paper detailedly. He groaned. “Small… But I can work with it.”

Ed turned to him, planning to ask what that meant, but found Riddler had disappeared from the room. His confidence had disappeared with him. 

The guard handed Ed the Visitor pass from a slit in the plastic cubicle. “Here you go, Mr. Nygma. Go straight down this hallway, then make a left. Show the guard your pass, and he’ll take you to patient B-113.”

Ed took it with trembling hands, and thanked the guard. He started making his way, when the robust man opened the door of his cubicle and called out to him. Ed returned, confused. Had he done something wrong?

The guard pulled him in close, taking hold of his right arm, and whispered to his ear. “Considering you and Cobblepot are, y’know,  _ close _ ,” he made a pause. “He’s in worse shape than you can imagine. Seriously. Just… warning you. Don’t want it catching you off-guard.”

Unsure of how to reply, Ed said nothing as the guard let go of his right arm and closed the door of his cubicle. Then walking down the hallway, he felt his head spin.

He had too many questions and not enough answers. Why was he even here? It’s not like he had a particular reason to visit Oswald. Why did the guard’s warning worry him so much? The more Oswald suffered, the better. Right?

And what kind of answer was  _ lovers _ ? What was Riddler playing at?

“I mean, it  _ did  _ get me in…” he whispered to himself, his cheeks burning. 

_ But why does it feel so natural, this supposed relationship? _

* * *

“What do you mean,  _ lover _ ? I don’t  _ have  _ a lover!” Oswald exclaimed, somewhat wearily, somewhat terrified, to the scrawny guard leading him down the hallway to the Visitor’s room against his will. Oswald couldn’t quite place  _ why  _ he was so apprehensive of the thought that someone was visiting with that relationship to him. Maybe because he wasn’t sure who it could be. Maybe it was Jerome and another one of his “jokes”. Maybe it was Sofía, who everyone thought he was dating at some point, or maybe… maybe it was  _ him.  _ None of the options pleased him. Rather, they mortified him.

“Look, B-113, I’m new. It’s my third day here, and it is  _ hell _ . Just - don’t put up a fight,” the guard asked as they kept walking. God, he walked so fast. Oswald could barely keep up. Did the man not see he had a limp?

“Oh, I’m sorry. It’s just that, well, you could be leading me to my  _ death _ ,” Oswald complained again, his voice sarcastically nonchalant. The guard audibly sighed. 

“Does it look like I  _ care _ ?”

Some nerve! Struggling with the pace at which the guard walked, Oswald took a moment to ensure no sign of pain escaped his voice. He scoffed. “You should. Do you  _ know  _ who I am?”

“Yes. A gay man who committed filicide. Now, keep up and stop the whining.”

Oswald groaned, out of frustration and pain. “He  _ wasn’t  _ my son,” he declared quietly to deaf ears, mostly to prove he knew the meaning of the word  _ filicide. _ Tears stung his eyes.  _ And I didn’t kill him,  _ he thought to himself. Six weeks at Arkham taught him no one cared about that last part. Or any part, really. He was a slow learner on that aspect. 

He limped on in silence as the inmates they passed laughed maniacally. Oswald knew they were too detached from reality to be laughing at him, but it sure felt that way. Then, he recognized Jerome’s laughter among the chorus. He had heard. So it  _ wasn’t  _ him visiting. Oswald wondered vaguely through the pain how Jerome would use this new information to torture him that afternoon. And then it struck him. 

_ A gay man.  _

It was a  _ man  _ who was visiting him. Good. Oswald wasn’t sure if he would have cried in front of or tried to kill Sofía if it had been her who was visiting. He sighed in relief, assured that he wouldn’t have to see her twisted, cruel face, and that she wouldn’t see him so weak. And Jerome was in his cell, meaning it wasn’t him either. So, then it  _ was  _ him. 

But that made no sense. Why would  _ he  _ be visiting him in Arkham? Oswald wasn’t sure what he was going to do when he saw him again. Mostly out of habit, he looked down at his slacks. Dirty, torn. God, he looked awful. He hated the flutter in his chest that erupted at the thought of seeing him again. He hated the fact he was self-conscious about his appearance like he hadn’t been for months. And he hated himself every step of the way to the Visitor’s room. 

And even more so when the flutter worsened at the sight of Ed Nygma, sitting passively with a small smile on his lips. Across from him, a table in between. So close. So out of place.

Why was  _ he  _ here? What did he want from him?

Oswald didn’t know if he wanted to hug him or strangle him. But he knew damn well that he wasn’t over him.  _  Lovers  _ suddenly didn’t seem like such an inaccurate term to define their relationship, after all. What the hell else was, well,  _ this _ ?

_ It’s all a lie, a fake relationship just so he could get in,  _ Oswald reminded himself with a steadying breath.  _ Don’t get your hopes up.  _

_ But, then again, he got in to visit me,  _ a small voice within him whispered, keeping a little bit of hope stored. Just in case. 

Still, the portion of himself in denial outweighed the one senselessly hoping. For a second, he convinced himself of Ed’s ulterior motive, soothing the turmoil in his chest. 

That is, until his visitor spoke.

“Hello, Oswald,” Ed greeted casually. As if he hadn’t shot him and dumped him in the Gotham River to die. As if Oswald hadn’t frozen him in ice and exposed him to the world for months. As if they were, indeed, lovers. 

He might’ve lied to get into Arkham, God knew why. Everything he told the guards might not have been true. But the way Ed made him feel was  _ anything  _ but fake. 

Even now.


	2. The Mineral Ring

The Iceberg Lounge was chilly that evening as the staff diligently worked, cleaning the tables and vacuuming the carpet that covered the vast expanse of the dining hall after a long day. Enveloped in the most gentle of violet hues, only one table remained occupied deep into the night, with both Oswald and Martin sitting amiably sipping wine. Contrary to what the staff may have presumed, Oswald’s gaze remained riveted to his penguin exhibit in the center of the Lounge, uninterested in the activities going on around them. He trusted his employees knew to be afraid and do their job. 

Lost in the reflections of light upon the ice, Oswald’s attention only returned to the room as he heard loud footsteps behind him, somehow rising above the overall noise. With a snap of his fingers, silence fell and only the footsteps remained, moving closer. 

“I’m taking my leave for the night, boss,” Victor Zsasz spoke emotionless and audibly tired. Martin noted from a single glance that his stance was still pained from his last assignment, his right shoulder bandaged shy of a cast. In the back of his mind, Martin could remember the purple bruise the Batman had left in his wake, the first he’d seen up-close and dark as the carpet. 

“If you must,” Oswald replied feigning nonchalance while extending a hand for the umbrella he knew Zsasz carried in his left hand from upstairs. The assassin quietly complied, handing over the disguised weapon by the handle. 

“Is there anything else I can do?” Zsasz asked with a certain subtle anger in his tone that disquieted Martin but Oswald cared little for. 

“No, Victor. You did more than enough by fetching me what I asked right from beneath the Bat’s nose,” the Penguin answered, a smile upon his lips that was almost predatory and altogether unnatural at that time of night. “I’ve already placed it somewhere safe,” he added, gently patting the chain he wore around his neck before placing his hand on Martin’s arm, “You’re dismissed.” 

As Zsasz’ footsteps resumed once again their course, Oswald turned to look at Martin, expecting questions. It had become his son’s custom to wish to be informed on the general goings on of both businesses he was sole heir to: the Lounge and the criminal empire. Clearly the secrecy of the affair had picked his interest. 

“ _ How much longer will you wait for him to show up? _ ” Martin signed with mild exasperation, his fingers forming delicate shapes at a surprisingly patient rhythm. 

“Just a couple minutes longer, my boy,” Oswald found himself answering, attempting to keep himself from considering any circumstance for too long.  _ Just five more minutes,  _ he repeated in his head like a mantra, desperate to get the matter over and done with as soon as possible. The penguins, meanwhile, splashed about in their artificial iceberg. 

“ _ He must be offering a lot of money if you accepted to make this deal after everything he’s done to you, _ ” the boy added, not quite convinced that his father’s intentions were in the right place. Martin knew little about Oswald’s relationship over the years with the Riddler, but what he knew was enough to make him instantly suspicious. Oswald was given to trust the man with hardly any thought, winding up hurt at the end of every scheme they ever collaborated in. After the fight they’d had the last time they’d spoken months prior, the dining room’s china had had to be replaced and three tablecloths mended. Not to mention, the staff had spent a considerable amount of time digging bullets from the wall and collecting debris from the penguin exhibit. Martin believed his caution was justified.

“That’s inconsequential, Martin, I just need him-” the Penguin began, twirling the ring he always wore around his finger, as sounds of struggle reached them from one of the adjacent rooms. Within an instant, the door opened to reveal the Boy Wonder caught in confrontation with a member of Oswald’s security detail.

As every available member of staff rose to the occasion to detain Robin, a loud crash was heard above them on the crystal roof before the Batman’s silhouette appeared amidst an improvised rain of shattered glass. Acting quickly, Oswald opened his umbrella to shelter himself and Martin while also aiming a couple of shots at the unwanted intruder. 

In the struggle of the following minutes not a single instruction needed to be voiced. As if on automatic, Martin and Oswald ran as best they could up the staircase, trusting the staff would handle the commotion and distract the Caped Crusader. Along the way, Oswald continued to fire bullets from his umbrella, using its open end as a shield. Once at the top, both entered Oswald’s office, with Martin activating the button on the desk that opened up the panic room while Oswald prepared his next move. “Get going, I’ll catch up!” Oswald yelled behind him as he closed his umbrella, simultaneously forcing the panic room door closed as well. 

Batman always was an unpredictable fighter that preferred to start any confrontation with an old-fashioned round of interrogation. “Where’s the mineral, Cobblepot?” his deep, masculine voice demanded as Oswald struggled to catch his breath and clear his head. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Batman.”

His next move after defiance was stated tended to be a punch to the chest, something that Oswald fully anticipated. With a swift flick of the wrist, his metal reinforced umbrella opened once more to receive the damage. After a couple punches and swings, Oswald released the umbrella and grabbed hold of a different one, this one capable of emitting a fog-like mist. Confident in his efficient distraction, Oswald made a move for his cane, taking his trusty penguin-tipped knife in hand. As the cloud dispersed, Batman was met with the glittering blade and its sharp bite upon the skin of his jaw. However, Penguin didn’t account for the Dark Knight’s superior reflexes from a myriad nights fighting in the cold. A smooth blow to the head from the left was enough to take Oswald Cobblepot off-balance and close his pale eyes.         

* * *

He knew his little trip was strictly business related even as he found he needed to repeat it to himself a considerable amount of times to fully believe it. There was a method to the madness, a purpose to be achieved, and Edward Nygma was nothing if not goal-oriented.

With effort he refused to acknowledge, Ed opened the doors to the Lounge and made his way into the main dining room. Upon first glance, the place was unrecognizable, so deeply affected by a previous confrontation that Ed presumed could not have been more than a day ago. The dome that usually adorned the ceiling had been shattered across the middle, its glass covering the majority of the floor despite the staff’s efforts. Many of the expensive, velvet chairs rested in pieces around the hall, and those that weren’t were covered in bullet holes. Over all, an undeniable air of destruction seemed to suffocate the once splendid club. 

Delicately interested in a way that only a former medical examiner could on a scene like that, Edward indulged in noticing every detail available to him regarding what might have happened as soon as the previous night. He carefully avoided stepping on glass, noticing along the path what appeared like blood stains on the carpet. As he rounded the penguin exhibit, the sight of a dead one met his eyes, bleeding on the ice. Sheltered in the soft violet hues of the atmosphere, Edward followed the bullet-lined track that he presumed Oswald had taken as the attacker fell from the ceiling. He climbed his way upstairs to the Penguin’s office.

Sitting at the mahogany desk with both feet on the wood was none other than Victor Zsasz, looking unperturbed by the Lounge’s state of disrepair. He smiled at Ed with a gun in each hand and a bandage of considerable size adorning his right shoulder. He did not seem pleased, despite what his expression would want to have Ed believe. 

“What are you doing here, Nygma?” the assassin quickly asked, pointing one of his signature revolvers directly at the pocket square of Edward’s green suit. Feigning nonchalance, Ed allowed his hands to perform one of their casual flourishes and his eyes to stray to the floor in search of possible weapons. He somehow knew he’d regret not bringing a single gun with him. 

“I was supposed to meet Penguin last night,” was the first excuse that occurred to him, too true to be any good as a lie. While thinking of what else to add to his statement, his eyes came to rest upon what appeared to be a ring, glittering on the office’s ceramic tile. The metal beckoned him from where he stood and the purple jewel in its center seemed to call him by name.

“Why weren't you here last night then?” Zsasz questioned further, starting to piece something together he didn't like behind his eyes. It wouldn't be an unjustified assumption to presume, he thought, that the injury he’d sustained out of fetching some pretty like insignificant something had all been at the Riddler’s request after all. 

“Things got  _ complicated _ ,” Edward answered, intent on not giving away too much information as long as that insufferable macabre look remained on Zsasz’s eyes. “What happened?” he added, hoping the assassin might be compelled to inform him for a change. 

Zsasz only shook his shoulders, wincing mildly after the fact and placing one of his guns down on the desk to rub his injured shoulder. That was a good weakness to keep in mind just in case things got ugly, Edward thought to himself. “I wasn't here. The little bird said Batman and Robin stormed into the building. Same old, same old, I guess.”

“Is he okay?” the thought that he might not be minimally bothered the Riddler. He wasn’t entirely sure how the idea of Oswald fighting face-to-face with the Bat made him feel. He didn't doubt Oswald would be able to survive the encounter, he knew without doubt that Penguin was vicious. It still, however, was an unsettling thought that brought Edward’s eyes directly onto Zsasz’s. 

“The kid, yeah,” the assassin said, finding it within himself in light of the honesty in Edward’s eyes to place the other gun he held down on the table. Maybe, he thought, he’d even forgive Riddler for his injured shoulder. “They had to take Penguin out on a stretcher, though.”

All noise was drowned out within an instant as those words were spoken, Edward's ears unable to register anything but the sound of his own exacerbated heartbeat. The whole concept was unthinkable and yet, he could see it within the extreme edges of his peripheral vision. There it was, Oswald’s body, lying limp on the ground, his ring abandoned on the floor never to adorn his finger again. It was altogether too impossible to consider, and yet, it had all been his fault. “We were supposed to have the exchange last night,” he said then, hardly thinking but deeply concerned. 

“Blame it on the Bat,” Zsasz stated, seemingly exhorting Edward to do as he apparently had on some level or other. “That weird thing the two of you had me fetch was most definitely on Penguin to the last minute, hanging round a chain on his neck.”

A thought rose unbidden then, too curious not to consider it: Perhaps not all was lost. Questions remained of course, buried in the most cumbersome depths of his brain, regarding the morality of the plan, but in Edward’s eyes the risk was worth taking. Visiting Oswald would satisfy his curiosity and allow him to retrieve his mineral, simple as killing two birds with one stone. With that in mind, Edward bid Zsasz goodbye with an exaggerated bow that went unnoticed by the assassin, taking hold of the ring on his way out and shoving it in his pocket. 

The drive to Gotham General was uninteresting as was Edward’s complete lack of weaponry. It was so ordinary it felt almost bizarre. Therefore, when the officers at the door asked him to remove any metallic objects he might be carrying, the task seemed ridiculously inane. He’d taken his phone from his pocket, his keys, and his hat. Of course, as if by some trick of fate, the machine had still rung and a deeper search had been conducted. The last remaining thing in his pocket happened to be Oswald’s ring, too familiar to look at and too important to leave behind, also apparently metallic. Once the ring had been thoroughly inspected, Ed had placed it on his finger, hardly sparing it a second further thought. 

The locating of the room proved to be surprisingly easy, not unlike solving a simple riddle. Within minutes from walking through the front door Edward found himself looking directly at Oswald where he rested, unconscious on a bed. Dressed in a hospital gown, his errant fringe covering his forehead, Oswald looked simultaneously younger and older than Ed had ever seen him. There was a certain quiet power to a moment like that, shrouded in silence and secret pleasure. Taking quiet steps as close as he could without taking a seat on the chair by his bedside, Edward looked at the man while seemingly peering through decades of time. He looked frail, weakness lurking in the lines around his eyes. He looked peaceful, strength concealed in the white hairs growing at his temples. As indecipherable now as in months prior, as familiar in foreign sheets as he’d been on his own.

His thoughts were interrupted then as a doctor walked into the room, speaking subtle nonsense about checking on the patient. Her eyes, however, met Edward’s with a deliberate element of surprise.

“Ed? I can’t believe my eyes,” Leslie Thompkins said, her lab coat moving along with her shoulders and the dark tresses of her hair. Somehow, no waves of nostalgia rose within Edward at the sight of Lee, however strong his feelings for her might have been what felt like a million years into their common past. 

“Hello, doctor Thompkins,” the formality in his tone quickly dissipated the slight polite smile that had quietly begun to settle upon her lips. She changed her behavior altogether, in fact. “It's been a while.”

There was a tray full on needles in her hands that Ed supposed were meant to run tests on Oswald. They looked rather threatening, long and empty. “And it's been fun, Ed, really, but I need to tend to Oswald and you need to go,” she stated with a small chuckle, setting the tray down before crossing her arms in front of her chest. “Only family is allowed to see patients.”

Quick reflexes were what allowed him to respond, looking genuinely insulted and catching Lee off-guard with his immediate body language and expressions. One could say he’d rehearsed for this role a whole lifetime. “We  _ are  _ family, Lee,” Edward said to a disapproving shake of the doctor’s head. She’d underestimated him, and that was a grave mistake. 

“I’ve known you both for years-”

“Actually, Lee, Oswald and I are married,” Ed found himself saying, so faintly true that it made for a brilliant lie as Oswald’s ring glittered upon his ring finger, “In secret. Have been for many years.”

It was almost sad in that moment to think on the difference between reality and illusion. As things were at the time, Oswald and Ed had been at odds for many months, fought regularly when they did speak, and hardly ever contacted one another with anything but business propositions. It was soothing, almost charming, to appear to have been in love for decades beneath everyone’s noses.

Of course, doctor Thompkins’ eyes remained skeptical, and the look only worsened once Martin made his way into the room, seething with quiet rage upon the mere sight of Ed. At first signing with rather agitated movements, Martin decided to transition within minutes of blank stares into written blasphemy, having to dig into a bag in the corner for a good couple minutes before giving up on expressing his opinions to the group. Just as all began to seem lost, Oswald began waking up, calling Ed’s name gently in small murmurs.

The role he’d been playing only became more interesting with Oswald’s cooperation, as Edward took what used to be Martin’s seat at Oswald’s side. Ring against ring, Edward held onto Oswald’s hand and murmured with equal softness simple chants of comfort. Sweet nothings slowly helped the Penguin steer his consciousness away from the fog and into the light.

“ _ Ed _ ,” Oswald uttered then in a broken little whisper, engulfing Edward in memories of cologne and softness altogether too familiar to look at and too important to leave behind. 

“Yes, it’s me,” Ed found his voice answering back, unsure of why those were the right words to say. Next thing he knew, his hands curved around Oswald’s cheeks, bringing his lips straight to his. The kiss was reverent and silencing, quelling the timid little noises that had become Oswald’s voice. It was frail, concealing feelings that could never be acknowledged the way they longed to be. It was peaceful, ethereal in the way only things that are meant to be ever are.

It was unthinkable to stop, taking more strength than he believed he possessed in that moment as Oswald’s hands rose from the sheets to tangle in the hairs at the nape of his neck. His lips trailed every path his eyes had once followed, around Penguin’s delicate jaw and down his neck. Slowly, the voice began to return, rising from a whisper, desperate to be heard and left alone.

“Would you excuse us, my boy? Doctor?”

“But, Mr. Cobblepot, I need to speak with you regarding your injuries and the treatment-” Lee began, unable to capture Oswald’s attention while Ed’s teeth bit into his collarbone a bit harder than necessary.

“I’m sure Martin can inform me of those later. Right now, I believe Ed requires my full attention,” Oswald almost gasped as Ed’s teeth settled on the chain he still wore around his neck. Carefully and without calling much attention to it, Ed began to pull, intent in finding the mineral concealed beside Oswald’s heart, but not keen on Oswald finding out it was so. He was distracted enough, he thought, errant fingers colliding restlessly with the skin at the back of Edward’s neck. 

“Of course, we’ll give you both some privacy.”

It was as the door closed that Oswald’s grip became suffocating and the taste of his skin too potent for words. “Am I dead?” He asked, innocent as sunshine, combing through the hair at the front of Edward’s face.

“You’re alive,” Ed answered him, certain as dust, breathless and sweet as the metal he still tasted in his mouth. At the centre of his neck, at the bottom of the chain, was an all-too-familiar ring with an emerald jewel set against a white gold band. It was so ordinary it felt almost bizarre, the picture they must have made, the sentimentality of the gesture. He could still recall the way he’d janked it off his finger at the Lounge after their argument, proclaiming his independence and allegiance to himself above all others, before throwing the piece of jewelry behind him. Oswald had kept it.

Sobered from the thoughts coursing through his mind, Edward stood, separating himself from the man on the bed, still holding onto his shoulders like vices. “Ed, what’s going-” Oswald began as Martin impatiently opened the door, effectively switching places with Edward as the later walked out of the room in swift strides without uttering a word. 

Martin’s hands were soft as they came to rest upon Oswald’s, absentmindedly twirling the ring in his hand. The action must have been soothing, for when Martin finally signed his sentiments were much more amiable. 

“What did the doctor say, dear boy?” Oswald asked. 

“ _ Shouldn’t we wait for your secret husband to come back so he can hear it too? _ ” Martin signed back. 

* * *

The Iceberg Lounge had sustained a considerable amount of damage that required weeks to repair. A new glass dome had to be commissioned and shipped from France, along with a whole dining room’s worth of velvet chairs to replace the old ones. Along with the expensive structural issues that had risen from the confrontation, a whole staffing problem also arose. The entire security detail was replaced and along with them, a goon was hired to engage exclusively on the roof, lurking in the shadows, just in case Batman chose to make another unexpected visit through the roof.

An evening, weeks after the original incident, all had returned to the way it used to be. The staff busied themselves with the maintenance of the club while Zsasz took his leave for the night in exacting fashion. The footsteps left Martin and Oswald for a couple minutes before returning, a bit louder than before, with a tired voice that proclaimed: “Edward Nygma is at the door, boss.”

“Let him in,” Oswald said before receiving a elbow to the ribs. Martin had never quite recovered from the hospital incident. Nevertheless, it was his decision to see Ed, whether or not it was to his son’s liking. As Edward’s form crossed the threshold of the door, Oswald felt his heartbeat keenly on his chest and spoke in an effort to relieve the tension he felt brewing in the back of his head: “Can I help you?”

“I just came to check up on you. See if you’d recovered,” Edward said, standing calm and collected a respectful distance away. Oswald could tell he was uncomfortable somehow, perhaps out of some shift of color in his eyes. 

“Fully, yes,” He began before turning to Martin. “Would you excuse us, my boy? I need to speak with Mr. Nygma.” The boy only nodded in compliance, a face without expression but quietly seething with annoyance. 

After a couple minutes of listening to Martin’s departing footsteps, Edward spoke. “How are you feeling?”

“Not unlike a drunk holiday in Vegas. I even got married apparently without remembering when.”

“About that,” Ed started, quietly sheepish and with a subtle blush creeping on his pale cheeks, “I came to return your ring.”

Oswald stared, completely at a loss. 

“I have it. I found it on the floor of your office. It probably fell off when Batman attacked you,” Ed explained, skipping the section of his story that included Zsasz and regret and guilt. 

Whatever he expected Oswald’s reaction would be, it wasn’t necessarily frustrated confusion. “I have it on, Ed. Have had it this whole time,” Oswald said, advancing closer so that Edward would be able to look at the sparkling silver and purple ring he wore in his hand. The blush on Edward’s cheeks only worsened from there, embarrassment creeping up to join his other uncharacteristic, sensitive emotions.

“Well,” Ed exclaimed with a huff, “at least that is one thing I can count on you to have.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You still owe me a mineral,” Ed said, matter-of-factly, convinced of the veracity in his words. Oswald’s head only shook softly from side to side. 

“You already have it, turns out.”

It was Edward’s turn to stare, completely at a loss, and for Oswald to explain. 

“You’re holding it. The mineral is in the green stone. Batman had it placed in a ring of all things. Familiar , don’t you think?” A bit of heat returned then to the Penguin’s chest, seeing Edward’s face so sweetly contorted in interest. He knew that stare. Something didn’t quite fit in that big brain of his.

“You’re losing your eyesight, old bird. It’s clearly a purple stone,” Edward said, gesturing emphatically as only he could with his long, extended, slim arms. “Nevermind. Till the next time, Oswald.”

As the Riddler turned to walk away, Oswald called after him in the sweetest voice he could muster, smiling from ear to ear, “I expect flowers next time!”

Within a couple minutes, Martin reappeared from where he’d gone to listen, signing frantically for however long he had his father’s attention. “ _ What was the mineral, papa? _ ” the little bird asked with gentle movements that still were swift.

Oswald patted his son’s back affectionately as he cleared his throat. “A type of explosive, dear boy,” he started, serene as the soft violet hues that decorated the stairway on their way up to the office and the rooms beyond. “Ed will try to synthesize it into something or other. It’s of no consequence with Batman after it. What matters most are its lesser known chameleonic qualities.” 

Step after step up the stairs, Martin remained silent, curious as to what exactly his father referred to and whether or not he would clarify. Soon enough, Oswald’s voice spoke again. “It takes the color of the person you love. Good night, Martin.”

With a kind kiss to his forehead, Oswald and Martin parted for the night, not before, in the dimly lit corridor the boy signed a final question to end the day: “ _ You’re not actually married are you? _ ”

Soft laughter was the only reply, which, the boy guessed, was better than nothing.


End file.
